


My Heart on a Sleeve

by KrakenCodex (Eghfeithrean)



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Blood, Keith has friends now and it hurts, M/M, implied past gore, zombie apocalypse AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-09
Updated: 2017-03-09
Packaged: 2018-10-05 20:18:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10316171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eghfeithrean/pseuds/KrakenCodex
Summary: With the world gone utterly to hell, Keith muses over the few good things he's gained through it all.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Late Sheithlentine gift fic for @splititopenkeit, who wanted some zombie AU.  
> Thank you for being so patient with me!  
> This was getting out of hand so a bunch had to be cut. It also turned out softer than intended...
> 
> Anyway, Zombie AUs are fun, we need more of them.

For as long as he could remember, Keith had been alone. Perhaps not always physically, he’d had parents once upon a time and a string of foster homes after, but certainly in the emotional sense. Regardless of the varying levels of care his foster families had had for him, Keith had grown up essentially self-reliant, even as all he’s truly longed for was a close, loving family.

It was he appreciated now more than ever, with the world having gone to hell. In that, nothing had changed, nothing was different.

Though his supposed standoffishness had repelled others growing up, the skills and tricks he’d learned as a part of his self-reliance himself had suddenly became the desired skillset of the new world.

It was ironic, in a way. His talents had made him admired, yet separate – distant. And somehow he was one of the few still left standing.

While others mourned the loved ones they’d lost and feared those still missing, Keith carried on as he’d always had. And even though it pained him that so many people he had known were now dead or shambling along as soulless husks, he realized it wasn’t the same; he’d known them but only distantly, he’d had no immediate loved ones.

It was better that way, easier. One less liability in the unforgiving hell of the World After.

Or so he’d told himself.  
  
\---  
  
Blood sprayed out upon the ground in a gruesome fluid arch, a glistening stain of rust upon the old, dusty carpet.

He altered his movements mid-step and swiftly brought his blade around to sever the head of an infected in one clean stroke as it emitted one last raspy screech of defiance. Rendered lifeless once more, the body crumbled into a heap at Keith’s feet in a pool of near-black blood. He kicked the detached head absently and sent it rolling down the darkened hallway with a quiet thump.

It was faintly unsettling, the splashes of blood painting the faded, peeling floral wallpaper. An old lady had probably lived here, Before. The house was small and weathered, its interior ransacked and disheveled, but in relatively good shape all the same. It was somewhat tidier than many other houses they’d investigated, in the way older people tended to keep things. Chipped porcelain knickknacks lined shelves, the beds still retained crisply tucked corners. The original owner probably had been evacuated by other family when the infection had still been relatively contained, or had made peace with their inevitable fate and not made much of a struggle.

From the looks of it, looters and bands of survivors had left the place relatively untouched as well.

Keith, for one, liked doing supply runs at older homes.

As a general rule, the elderly were more organized and well-stocked. They tended to have little stashes of things hidden in plain sight that others might otherwise overlook. This place, for instance, had had a roll of cash –utterly useless now- hidden in a seemingly innocuous decorative teapot. There were also pantry shelves in the laundry closet stacked above the washing machine, heavily laden with canned goods.  
Lance had once had the (mis)fortune of coming across a dildo stashed under a bed with a bottle of lube and a pack of batteries. Pidge and himself had been thoroughly amused by it – Lance, not so much. Despite their insistent teasing, the batteries and lube had been grudgingly scooped up and the toy left behind.

They never let him forget it, though.

To his right, he could hear Shiro rifling through the bathroom medicine cabinet, stashing rolls of gauze and pre-packaged sanitized wipes into his backpack. Keith could see him skimming bottles with a practiced eye. Pidge had told them what to look for specifically, but they were in no position to turn their noses at medicine of any kind. He’d already found sleeping meds in the drawer of a bedside table, along with a tiny bottle of aspirin. He’d pocketed the aspirin and tossed the rest into Shiro’s bag.

It was about time they headed back; it was their third day away from the compound, and neither he nor Shiro liked leaving the others for too long. Lance was reliable with a rifle –an excellent shot, Keith had to admit – and Pidge and Hunk could be counted on to pull through when the time called for it, but they all had other duties vital to their survival to focus on. He and Shiro were the best fighters of their rag-tag team and the quickest, and were therefore were the ones most often sent out on supply runs. But that also lent to an almost protectiveness, a responsibility, for the others that set them on edge whenever they left the compound. It was assuredly safe, they had all had a hand in that, but anything could happen.

The entire state of the world was proof of that.

“You got everything?” he called, peering out the dusty window blinds into the darkening street as he did so.

Coast was clear – so far, so good.

He heard Shiro grunt slightly, the shifting of a heavy pack onto his broad shoulders before he was given the affirmative.

“That should be it. Couldn’t find any Neosporin, but at least we’ve got more rubbing alcohol now.”

Keith snorted. “What kind of old lady doesn’t have Neosporin?”

“There’s plenty of denture cream, if you’d rather use that.”

“I think I’ll pass.”

Although… denture cream could make a nice temporary adhesive.

Keith hoisted his own bag up onto his back before moving to check the weight distribution of Shiro’s and ensure the straps were straight and free from the trappings of his pistol holster or knife belt. It was a silent routine they’d developed after Shiro’s injury, when he’d continued to do runs with Keith; if Shiro hated it he’d never said so, though he wasn’t the type to say so even if he did.

With only one arm, Keith wanted to make sure Shiro wouldn’t get tangled up in case he needed to drop the pack if things got truly dire. Shiro was a grown adult, he didn’t need to be looked after despite his impairment, but it made Keith feel better to double-check all the same. If something… happened and he couldn’t have Shiro’s back, he wanted him to be able to get away as best he could - even though Keith knew Shiro would sooner single-handedly take on an entire swarm of infected with only a pocketknife than leave him to die.

It was a touching thought, but not one Keith wanted to linger on.

“Alright”, he pronounced, finally patting at Shiro’s broad shoulders with approval, “we’re good to go.”

He hefted Shiro’s metal baseball bat and passed it to him, and Shiro leaned forward to give him a soft peck of lips in thanks; Keith popped up on his toes to return the gesture.

He did one last perimeter sweep from the backdoor window before easing the door open, sword in hand. Shiro filed out first with himself not far behind. Though he knew it was a meaningless formality, an act of customs past, he pulled the door closed behind him with a soft click.

And it was with soft, urgent steps that they slunk through the dying sunlight, two shadows in the gloom.  
  
\---  
  
They bunked up in an old forgotten treehouse for the night. The wood was warped by weather and disuse but was strong enough to hold them, by his measure. He’d found a rope and plank ladder stashed by the landing to toss down to Shiro, and together they’d unpacked a can or two of their newly acquired canned goods to serve as dinner. Using Shiro’s knife as a make-shift can opener, they ate by flashlight after agreeing its beams weren’t strong enough to permeate through whatever smalls cracks there were in their temporary shelter to give away their presence.

The pears and green beans were a welcome addition to the rations –all dried out of necessity but not entirely lacking in flavor – Hunk had sent with them. It’d been a while since they’d had fruit, and when they kissed Keith could taste the faint traces of the syrup the pears had been packed in.  
It made Shiro’s kisses even sweeter.

True privacy was hard to come by back at the compound, as small as it was. Too many people with varying levels of tolerance sharing space with all of Pidge and Hunk’s equipment – not to mention having a well-meaning friend who had a different concept of ‘personal space’ than Keith. It was another reason why he stepped up to do supply runs: the opportunity for fresh air and time alone with his boyfriend.

Their focus was always on the task at hand, of course. He and Shiro were too serious-minded, and their feelings of responsibility for the survival of their group too great for much slacking off, but their small gestures of affection were something they preferred to keep private between themselves.

Their conversations meant more than Keith could express. He had someone he could trust, to confide in and share his fears. Whatever his skills in combat, or tactics, or survival, it was Shiro’s mere presence that Keith cherished the most. Shiro reminded him that he was human, that he was more than a body trapped in an endless struggle for survival. And it felt so good to smile again.

It was something he’d never thought he’d have, especially now with the world as it was.  
  
They spent the rest of their evening teasing one another as they tallied up their new provisions before bed. Or, well, they were supposed to be. Their list soon became a page of scrawled games of hangman, with each trying to outdo one another with obnoxiously long and difficult to spell words – it was more fun with Pidge not here to win each round.

“No way in hell is that a word, I call bullshit.”

“Nope, Pidge used it on me last time. Floccinaucinihilipilification: ‘the estimation of something as useless’.”

Keith raised an eyebrow skeptically.

“And you’re sure she didn’t just make it up?”

Shiro shrugged.

“Doesn’t matter. I let her get away with it last time, so now its Hangman approved. ”

Keith glared at the page, then side-eyed his boyfriend.

“… you’re an asshole.”

“Thank you.”

And at that concession of defeat, Shiro added the final damning line to his little stick figure: a large frown. And then he snickered.

Cheeky asshole.

They finally broke down and repacked their half-tallied supplies afterwards, feeling the threads of sleep tugging at their bodies.

Keith was zipping up his bag and stashing it behind his rolled up jacket when he saw Shiro flinch out of the corner or his eye.  
Shiro’s heavy brows knitted together and he absently rubbed at the stump of his right arm, trying to not draw attention to it.

Phantom limb.

Keith knew the signs well enough by now, even if Shiro didn’t voice it.

The wound was well healed, better than it probably should have given the lack of resources when the slap-dash operation had initially been performed. It was clean, if not professional. Lance had done an admittedly impressive job on the suture –earning him the gruesome joking title of “The Tailor” – and Keith couldn’t thank him enough for it.

The phantom pains weren’t as prevalent as they used to be – it’d been nearly a year since most of the arm had been amputated – but occasionally Shiro still claimed to feel pain there, or even experience sensations as if the limb were still intact. Pidge assured them it was normal (and how she became an expert on the subject no one questioned), but it sent prickling chills down Keith’s spine all the same.

It only reminded him of his own failure, his own weakness. Each time Shiro shivered with false feeling, Keith remembered the shaking in his own hands, the icy cold blood that had pumped through his veins when he’d held the knife to cut at Shiro’s skin.

Because of a moment’s distraction on his part, Shiro had lost arm - almost lost his life.

A single bite…

Keith forced his breath out in a slow, steady exhale. Try as he might it did little to rein in the flood of his thoughts. The recollections were as blurry and warped by the misting tears in his eyes as they had been that day. The numbness in his own limbs as he'd forced his hands to mechanically cut and saw at living flesh. He remembered each sick slide of his blade, the acid bile stinging his throat, all the blood –there’d been so much - pooling on the floor…

The screaming.

“Keith?”

He jolted from his thoughts with a start and looked up at Shiro, who studied him with narrow-eyed concern. The corners of his mouth were tugged downwards as he shifted his remaining hand through the thickness of Keith’s hair.

“You ok?”

Keith’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, pulling himself out of the dark embrace of his thoughts and back into the present.

“’m fine.” He choked out.

Dammit he should be the one asking Shiro that; he’d been the one to have his fucking arm hacked off. Keith needed to pull himself together.

He reached towards his jacket, resting his fingers atop the lump in the pocket where the bottle of aspirin was tucked away.

“You need any painkillers?”

Shiro shook his head gently, though the concern still hadn’t left his eyes. He knew when Keith was deflecting him, but had the respect to not press the issue.

Instead he settled back against their wadded up jackets and raised his left arm meaningfully, and Keith relented to the invitation without question. He dug their threadbare blanket from his pack and pulled it over them when he lay back against Shiro’s chest, and his boyfriend pulled him close to brush his lips against the crown of his head.

Shiro smelled of sweat and earth and his own natural scent, and while it might have been off-putting in another life, Keith couldn’t care less. In fact, it was almost soothing, having another body here with him, wrapped around him. Shiro’s heartbeat was a strong, steady thrum beneath him, and the rhythm proved as much a comfort to him as his small shack of a home had once been.

They lay together talking softly for a time, legs intertwined and appreciating the moonlight that filtered in through the holes in the patchy roof and the leaves of the branches above. It was a thing they both missed: stargazing. To linger outside of cover for too long was to court death, so they had limited opportunity to freely admire the view.

One good thing to come out of this shit, I guess.

Shiro, his friends, and a night sky unblemished by light pollution.

There were worse things.

It was peaceful for a change, at least.

’Before’, he had enjoyed the quiet. He’d loved sitting outside with nothing but natural ambiance about him. It’d been soothing, instilled a peace within him that he yearned for now more than anything; more than a good hot shower, or a/c, or the few creature comforts he had once had.

And it still was, for the most part – especially when he’d spent too long cooped up at the compound. However, silence often brought with it a niggling sense of dread creeping up his spine. The threat of attack from an infected constantly shadowed him, and though his initial tension and the months of near-sleepless nights had relaxed, the gut instinct to always second-guess, always be on guard was second nature to him now. The nerves had gotten to him, he supposed. Had reached deep within his being and taken root, and he feared he would never again shake the paranoia.

It was probably for the best. It was why he was still alive, after all.

As his thoughts sifted and rolled over themselves he stroked Shiro’s cheek with his thumb, lulling the man to sleep. The stubble of almost two weeks of beard scraped against the digit, and Shiro’s breaths slowed and lengthened with each swipe. The dark hairs peppering his strong chin made him seem older and more rugged than he actually was. The mottling of scars upon his skin and the stub of his right arm physical manifestations of his inner turmoil, of all of their own struggles, and Keith so desperately wanted to kiss them all away. He’d give almost anything for the world to go back to as it had once been, before they’d all become encumbered by such heavy burdens.

But Keith was a realist, and nothing would come of dwelling on such thoughts. They wouldn’t end the infection or restock their supplies or make Shiro’s arm whole again, so he brushed the thoughts aside as swiftly as they’d come.  
  
It was strange to consider how different he was now, how much had changed for him apart from the obvious.

In the early days of the infection, Keith had thought himself lucky. It was for the best, he had decided, that he hadn’t had any close family. No one to mourn or fear for – perhaps even a blessing.

But now… now he did. His friends – this little ragtag team of theirs – were his family. Something about prolonged life or death situations really had a way of drawing people together. He had people who would risk their lives – had risked their lives, lost a limb – for him, and for whom he would do the same.

And it was then that he realized how foolish his earlier line of thinking had been. Surviving all on his own had been just that – survival. He’d focused on nothing more than finding the next cache of supplies, moving to better ground, and all the other necessities for life in the World After. And all the while he’d been shadowed by the longing for companionship, someone to share the burden and vent his frustrations and laugh with.  
Ironically, it had been the same thing he’d longed for all his life.

Well, he’d finally gotten his wish, and it had come wrapped in chaos and blood and fire.

Fate sure had a fucked up sense of humor.

But even so, no matter how bleak things seemed, he had people he could count on, a man he could trust with absolutely anything. They were a scrappy bunch, a tight-knit bunch. And sure they were mismatched and goofy, but they’d made it this far.

Meeting Shiro, and subsequently the others, had been the single mercy he had been granted since the infection had spread. And though at times it was as if shattered glass filled his heart, he found it to be a sweet pain; it was far less painful to share in their comraderie and love than it had been navigating the world alone.

Being with Shiro, with the others, came with its own set of problems of course. The world was still on fire and few things were certain. But as he faced hell, he knew Shiro would always be there at his side, walking hand-in-hand.  


 


End file.
